


Who You Really Are

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Series: Home is Not a Place [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anger, Anger Management, Crying John, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Forehead Kisses, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mild Depictions of Self Harm, Post-Season/Series 04, Sharing a Bed, TFP never happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 10:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12628881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: There are rules.When John is angry he will retreat somewhere private.When John is angry and retreats, Sherlock will allow him that space.It’s been working.  John has been more at ease with himself as a result, not terrified that he will unravel at any moment and become a man he barely recognises and cannot bear to countenance.So no, as much as Sherlock aches to do something, anything, he knows that the best thing he can do is give John the isolation he’s sought.





	Who You Really Are

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the tags on this. Though the focus here is growth, and healing, and love, and though John is managing his anger and there is no violence in this story (except some mild self-harm John aims at himself), it does deal with the phantom of everything that occurred in TLD, and references the work that both John and Sherlock have been putting in, in the almost two years that have gone by since then.
> 
> I don't think it will be particularly triggering, but if male anger of any kind sets you off, just be warned.
> 
> Also, since I know that the mini Watson isn't super popular with some folks, I thought I would mention that though she is mentioned in the character list here, Rosie actually makes just the briefest of on-screen appearances. 
> 
> Harry Watson and John's father are both referenced, but to not appear in this story.

Sherlock stands in the window, violin tucked under his chin, and watches John pace the sidewalk a floor below.This is what he does now, when his sister calls, goes outside, so he can pretend that she’s caught him out running errands and can cut the conversation short. It’s a small deception, but one Sherlock can appreciate. 

Every muscle in John’s body is coiled tight.His knuckles are white where he grips his mobile with one hand and balls his other into a fist at his side.His jaw is set.His shoulders square.

He will be in a foul mood for the rest of the evening.He will be short with anyone who crosses his path, Sherlock included.Especially Sherlock.There are too many parallels.Harry’s drinking is bad again.It’s the holidays, and she’s fraying ‘round the edges, doing things just to get and keep John’s attention, to win even a few moments of his care.It’s a technique Sherlock is only too familiar with.One he has been working very hard to abandon.

The front door slams, and Sherlock picks up his bow and begins to play.A little Bach will do. 

Rosie is out with the nanny today.One day on, two off.It’s a new arrangement that has been working well.Sherlock is grateful this is an on day.Mrs. Hudson is gone too, visiting her sister in Dorset for a few days.

John doesn’t even stop, he simply marches upstairs, slams his bedroom door, and leaves Sherlock standing in the ringing emptiness of the lounge.Sherlock plays five more bars, and then sets the instrument back in it’s case, and turns to stare up the stairs and into the shadows of the landing that have seemingly swallowed John whole.

Something tugs at the centre of him.A magnetic pull, positive pole to negative.

No. 

There are rules.

When John is angry he will retreat somewhere private.

When John is angry and retreats, Sherlock will allow him that space.

It’s been working.John has been more at ease with himself as a result, not terrified that he will unravel at any moment and become a man he barely recognises and cannot bear to countenance. 

So no, as much as Sherlock aches to do something, anything, he knows that the best thing he can do is give John the isolation he’s sought.

 

* * *

 

It’s dark when John comes back downstairs.

Sherlock and Rosie are eating mushroom risotto Sherlock made from a box.Rosie twists around in her booster seat and holds up a fist full of steamed broccoli.“Daddy, ducks.”

John stares.

“At the park.There were ducks.They fed them vegetables,” Sherlock clarifies.

“Ah…That’s good Ro.”John sounds tired.He sits down, and takes the broccoli out of her hand, replacing it with the plastic fork beside her plate.“Use this, okay.We’ve talked about that.”

Sherlock gets up, and fills a plate for him as Rosie continues on regaling them with her childish sound bites on ducks, and dogs, and Amy the nanny.John nods and peppers in the odd bit of verbal acknowledgement.He looks up and catches Sherlock’s eye, as he takes a first bite of the food in front of him and forces a grateful smile.Sherlock smiles back.

After supper Sherlock bathes her.

Sherlock does the dishes, while John reads the obligatory bedtime story.

They both tuck her in to bed in the small nursery down the hall from John’s room, and then retreat back to the lounge.

“You mind if I light a fire?”

“Of course not.Sit.I’ll do it.”

John doesn’t insist on doing it himself, which is a sign in and of itself that he is not himself.He settles into his arm chair, picks up the book on the table beside him, and begins to read.Once the fire is lit, Sherlock does the same.

The silence is comfortable enough, but Sherlock cannot help but steal a glance now and again.He’s being ridiculous.He knows it.John’s issues with his sister are long-standing, and have always had the ability to set him off.This is nothing.It’s nothing he need be so anxious about.But it’s like this now.It bothers him when John is upset, in ways it never used to before.

The fourth time he sneaks a glance, John catches him.He sighs and sets his book down in his lap.“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re looking.”

“I can’t look?”

“Yeah, but you’re doing _the look_.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The worried look.”

Sherlock just shakes his head.

“Listen, I’m fine, okay.Harry’s just… Well, I don’t want to talk about it, actually, but I’m fine.”

Sherlock nods.“Alright.”

They sit another two hours like that, a familiar quiet between them, the fire popping in the grate the only sound beside the traffic outside and the soft shush of turning pages.

Finally, John shuts his book with a sigh.“Well, I think I’m going to turn in.”

Sherlock looks up from the journal he’s reading.“Alright.”

“Thanks for today.”

“For what?”

“Everything.”

“You’re—welcome.”

John graces him with a soft smile.“Night, then.”

“Good-night.”

John retreats first to the loo.It’s his nightly habit: relieves himself, brushes his teeth, sometimes showers, then comes back to the kitchen, gets a glass of water, goes upstairs to bed.

Sherlock listens to the water in the shower turn on, wonders again at the almost unbearable draw to get up from his chair, walk the few steps down the hall, open the door, and…And what?Ask John if he can watch?Ask John if he can join him?His mouth goes dry, and he tries to refocus on the article in front of him.

No.That’s not who they are.That’s not what they do.There has been a kiss, a kiss was more than he had ever dared hope, and John has kissed him in the two weeks since, too.Nothing like that night, but there have been the soft presses of lips to his temple in passing, a forehead kiss when he had been having a particularly trying morning and was in a strop on the sofa.There had even been a quick peck to the lips in the foyer, as John had passed Sherlock coming home from Barts just as he had been running out to the shops.John had looked as surprised at himself as Sherlock had been.Mrs. Hudson, who had been exiting her flat at just that moment, had looked absolutely delighted. 

The water’s shut off, John emerges in nothing but a tightly wrapped towel.He goes to get his glass of water.He won’t address Sherlock again.He never does.They’ve said their good-nights.That’s the ritual. 

“John.”

John’s head appears at the entrance to the kitchen, and then the rest of him, tightly gipping the the towel around his waist.“Mm?”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.Why?”

Sherlock shakes his head.“No reason.Today just seemed—difficult.I wondered if you—if it would help at all…”

John’s brow furrows in confusion.“Sorry?”

“Yes, I…Sorry.What I meant to say, is that—you could sleep here, if you…Well, not here.Not ‘here’ here, but—you could sleep in my room, if you like.I know—it seems to help sometimes.”

John is silent, and Sherlock’s heart flips in his chest, when he realises that John is actually considering the offer.They’ve done this before, shared a bed, but it has always been John doing the asking, and it has been weeks, if not months, and they weren’t quite…Well things are different between them now.

“Yeah?” John finally replies.“Yeah, okay.I need to uh…”He motions to his state of undress, before jerking his chin toward the upper floor.“And I should probably turn on Ro’s monitor.I’ll be back in a minute, okay.”

“Alright.I’ll lock up.”

John retreats upstairs, and Sherlock listens to the creak of the floorboards for a moment, tracks his movements: into his room, pyjamas from the dresser, dress quickly, pad softly into Rosie’s room.Sherlock gets up, goes downstairs to check the door to the street, back up to their flat, shuts off the lights one-by-one.

John is lying in bed with the lights off when Sherlock finally reaches his room.It’s dark, but there is enough of the city’s glow coming through the bedroom window that he can see that he has changed into a white t-shirt and most likely pants.

Sherlock shuts the door behind him, strips quickly and efficiently down to his pants, and crawls in beside him.

“Thanks for this.”John is whispering.There is something terribly intimate about it in the close darkness.

Sherlock whispers back.“Of course.Any time.”

John sleeps on his back—always.It is a habit he picked up, out of necessity, when he’d been injured.Sherlock always sleeps on his side.John is uncharacteristically silent tonight, so Sherlock rolls over and away, after awhile, curls into himself and tries to sleep. 

He’s not sure what he thought might happen, but it was a stupid thing to hope for.John’s day has been horrible.John seeks space when he feels resentful and hopeless to help.It’s a wonder he even wanted this…

“Sherlock?You awake?”

_oh_

“Yes.”

“Wanted to say again—thanks.Thanks for today.I—I’m sorry I get that way, it’s just…I can’t be her everything all the time.”

“I know.”

“She just expects me to drop everything and come running every bloody time she’s having a bad patch, and I just—I can’t keep doing that.I don’t have the time, you know.Not with Rosie, and us, and…Well, I should be allowed to have a life of my own.”

“Yes.”

John sighs.“I’m sorry.You’re trying to sleep, I’ll just…”

Sherlock rolls over quickly, to face him.“No.It’s fine.”He balls the pillow up beneath his temple, and slides a little closer to John in the darkness.“The holidays are hard.She no doubt feels the loneliness acutely, right now.But, you’re quite right.You’re allowed to have time for yourself, and you can’t be her only support.It’s not sustainable.”

John nods and stares down at the patch of mattress between them.

“John…”He looks up again, and Sherlock smiles gently.“I’m sure she appreciates what you _are_ doing for her.You give of yourself a great deal.She is just—particularly needy.”

“I don’t know.Sometimes I don’t know if it’s that, or—if I’m just resentful.”

“Perhaps both?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Does she ever do anything for you?”

“What?”

“I just mean—is she always taking, or does she sometimes make an attempt to give back to you?”

John huffs.“You playing therapist now.”

The words bite, and Sherlock isn’t quite sure why.But he is treading dangerously.He can tell by the sudden shift in John’s tone that he’s hit a nerve.Time to retreat a little.“No.I’m sorry.We don’t have to talk about this.”

John laughs.“No, no.By all means, use those deductive powers of yours, and tell me just how much all of this is my fault.”

“What?”

“Well, that’s where this is going, right?‘ _You’re being ridiculous, John.She tries to give back, and you won’t let her, because you get off on the giving.You get off on being the sane one, because then you can resent her, and pretend you aren’t the co-dependent one burying your own problems under the guise of responsibility._ ’”He’s managing a hell of a good Sherlock Holmes impression, with a side dash of Therapist Ella, and he sounds bitter and angry, but—well, he’s not half wrong… 

Sherlock knows better than to say so.“I’m not sure if this is a conversation best had between you and I.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”John’s propped up on one elbow now, glaring down at him.

Sherlock feels his heart rate pick up.“Only that, as you observed, it is, perhaps, something best reserved for a therapy session.I’m your…We’re too—involved.I think that you should talk to Ella about this, not me.”

“What?”John’s voice is tight—dangerous.

Sherlock swallows hard, and fights to quell the rapid beating of his heart, the cold prickle over his skin.“John, this conversation is making me anxious, and I don’t think I’m the person you should be talking to about this.”

He hears John suck in a small breath.He sits all the way up suddenly, swings his legs over the side of the bed, and rubs a hand across his face.“Shit.”

“It’s alright.”

“No.It’s not.It’s not.You promised not to excuse…Remember.It’s not okay.”

“Yes.Alright.It’s not okay, but I’ve told you I’d like to stop, and we have.”

“Do you want me to go back to my room.I should go back to my room.”

“If you feel it’s best.For what it’s worth, I would like you to stay if you feel able to.”

“I need to go to the loo.”

“Alright.”

Sherlock lies in the dark, sees the light in the toilet flicker to life.He listens to John in the next room.He’s doing nothing but sitting there, cold and alone beneath the buzzing florescent light, and hating himself.After awhile he sniffs.And then he sniffs again.When Sherlock hears the sound of flesh making contact with flesh, bone, hard, dull, again-and-again, he knows it’s time to stop sitting still.

He gets up.He should knock, but he imagines this situation qualifies as an outlier, and he would be well within his rights to deviate from their agreement, just this once. 

John is sitting on the closed toilet, small, and pale, and coiled so tight he looks like he could fly apart at any moment as he punches a white-knuckled fist against his thigh again, and again, so hard it is red, so hard Sherlock thinks he can see the bruises blooming already.His face is screwed up, cheeks damp and jaw clenched hard in the attempt to keep quiet, and Sherlock doesn’t think, just strides over, sinks to his knees on the cold tile, and places one large hand over John’s small, desperate one.Instantly it stills.

“It’s cold.Come to bed.”

John shakes his head, pounds his fist again, beneath the warm shelter of Sherlock’s hand.He trembles.He trembles, and trembles like there’s something inside him trying to tear itself out, break free.Sherlock waits.

“I can’t…”

Sherlock wraps his hand carefully around John’s fist.“Can’t?”

“Any of it.What’s the point?”

“Any of what?”

“Any of any of it, all of this.What’s the point.Who…”He chokes on the word.It comes out half sob, but he forces himself on.“Who do I think I’m fooling?What’s the point?”

Sherlock doesn’t understand.

John stares down at Sherlock’s hand atop his.He shakes his head.“Every year I become more like him.”

Sherlock shakes his head.“No.”

John’s head snaps up, eyes red-rimmed, mouth twisted into the now all-too-familiar crooked, dangerous grin that Sherlock imagines is James W. Watson all over.“You have no idea.”

“Perhaps not.But I know you.”

John sniffs—half wry laugh, half sob.“Yeah.You do.So, you know I’m right.”

“What I know is that there is a courage, a loyalty, a—tenderness in you, that I imagine your father never had.It’s saved me so many times.It’s who you are.”John’s eyes fill and spill over, and Sherlock squeezes his hand, smiles softly.“It’s who you really are.”

His face crumples, and Sherlock reaches for him, pulls him in against his bare chest, without hesitation.John doesn’t resist, he comes easily, willingly, hands slipping around Sherlock’s back, face buried in Sherlock’s neck.He cries—great gulping sobs that wrench him from the core; flood, and drain, and purge, until there is nothing left.

When it is finished, he slumps weakly against Sherlock’s arm, as he leads them back to bed, and makes no objection when Sherlock reaches for him again once they’ve settled beneath the blankets, draws him close, and tucks John’s head beneath his chin.

Sherlock presses his lips to the crown of John’s head, because it’s what they are now, it’s what they do.“You’re a good man, John.You’re the best man I have ever known, and nothing that has happened the last few years has changed that.”

John’s swallows and sniffs against his chest.“I’m not ever going to be okay, you know.Not really.”

“I imagine I’m not either, but broken is not the same as irredeemable.It’s what you choose to do with it, and I’ve seen what you choose.I’ve seen it over, and over again the last year and a half, in every therapy session, in every decision to choose isolation over violence, in every moment where you stopped to take a breath before you spoke.I have seen it in the way you look at me, touch me—choose me.I have seen it in your patience with, and commitment to Rosie.And yes, even in your interactions with your sister.You choose to cut those conversations short rather than lash out.That is no little thing.

“Perhaps you’re right.Perhaps you will never be _okay_ , but you are so much more than what’s happened to you, John, so much more than a small handful of mistakes, no matter how horrible they may seem.You are who you choose to be, every moment, every breath, and on balance, who you choose to be is remarkably brave, and good.And that is why I love you, why I have always loved you.You have a goodness and a courage in you I can barely comprehend.”

There are tears pooling against his chest.“I don’t deserve you, you know.”

“Yes you do.I would say we very much deserve one another.”

John huffs wetly against his skin.“Yeah, maybe.You may have a point.”

Sherlock smiles into John’s hair, presses his lips against his head again, because he can.“Sleep?”

“Yeah.Probably should.”

“Coffee in the park in the morning?”

“Are you asking me on a date?”

“Yes.”

John grins.“That’d be nice, yeah.”

It is.


End file.
